I AM SMUT-LOCKED
by whenallthegoodnamesaregone
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was always a difficult man to handle as it was, John didn't think he could take it anymore. I mean, he was a great friend but this was just awkward...good thing he was a doctor. Rated M for later Johnlock chapters. First Fanfic, be nice!
1. The case of the arrogant detective

First ever fanfiction, so reviews are really helpful! The later chapters are going to be johnlock smut but for now it's fluffy!

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fantastic characters! In fact, if he was to see this, he'd possibly punch me!

.

.

.

"But _where-is-the-weapon!_" Holmes spat pointedly, his thin lips peeling back from his teeth as he leant across the rickety interrogation table.

The already pale man that was the object of Holmes' verbal attack grew even paler as he tried to meld himself into the back of the chair.

"W-weapon…what-"

"Oh, don't give me that Mr Green" Sherlock mused, leaning away with a smug smile etched onto his features, his eyes shining with content, "Or should I say… the car thief killer"

"Err…Sherlock…this is only the first suspect…" John piped up from the corner of the room to which he was so strictly situated, his arms folded, legs crossed and back leaning against the harsh white of the wall.

The typical image for any noire side-kick, only minus the fedora and tan trench coat; and maybe dock a few inches in height as well.

"No, it's him" Sherlock snapped back, not taking his luminescent eyes off the man, working, analysing…being Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock…"

"No, it's him John…"

John sighed and allowed his eyes to look to the ceiling, trying to think of the most suitable response,

"Okay…_how_ do you know it's him, Sherlock?" he couldn't believe he was asking this question.

Asking Sherlock Holmes how he 'deduced' something was like giving candy to a child who was already in a very intense sugar rush.

Sherlock straightened his back from the table and threw John a disdainful look, his eyebrows coming to knit together in his forehead,

"Oh, come _on_ John, you know…just THINK!"

"No, Sherlock" John stressed, "No, I _don't_ know, that's why I'm asking you"

Sherlock sighed and to any other man it would seem that Sherlock was annoyed at him, but John wasn't 'any other man' and he could clearly see that behind the façade, Sherlock was grinning like a little school boy.

_That bastard_ he thought, he was just _waiting_ for his time to shine; always waiting for John to admit that he actually had no clue what he was talking about.

"Clearly it's him, look at his fingernails…" he scoffed rather pointlessly.

The man in suspect suddenly became very awkward and fidgety, hiding his hands under the table.

"Now, now, now let's not play like that…" without warning Sherlock yanked one of the hands in question from under the table and held it in an iron grip.

The man yelped but was evidently too nervous to pull away; instead he just stared up at the tall detective, who had manoeuvred himself by his side, in utter most fear.

"Sherlock…" John warned, but Sherlock was already on a roll.

"Not very neatly kept, bitten, But bitten recently, you were nervous. Possibly about coming into here, possibly about that job interview you've got tomorrow. Most likely for coming in here.

'The nail is bitten very low down, still traces of salvia under the skin so you were deep in thought, again, more of a reason to think that you were nervous.

'Now why would someone like you have any reason to be nervous?

'Most likely if you've been abducting young girls off the street and killing them in brutal ways

'There are traces of dirt still under your nails- what's left of them anyway- you've been digging, but you were in a hurry, you had no spade and so you used your hands. No time to clean up, you've probably been traveling all night…

'But why?" he took a moment to think (and breathe) as he orbited the pink, chubby hand around in his long fingers.

John didn't even try to figure out how he knew he had a job interview tomorrow; he just stood there trying not to look too impressed.

That would just give him the fuel he needed, plus he couldn't just sprout compliments while he was thinking, god knows what would happen to him…

The suspect's fat face was aglow with sweat and his hand was trembling in the detective's hold.

"Maybe you were burying evidence…but the driving…" his attention spanned from his hand for a second, his (for now) diamond blue eyes scanning over the man's torso.

"There's traces of grime still on your shirt, yellowing patches…you smoke but you haven't had one for a while. You haven't been able to get home and you have no money on you…

'Or at least you did, but that's all gone now isn't it?" he smirked as he encircled the shaking man, suddenly crouching down to inspect the man's trousers.

The man squealed and tried very much not to move, John could see it was taking a toll on him. Sweat was drenched down his back, masses of it spilling from under his arms and rolling off his balding head.

"Signs of spillages -petrol- on your trousers from where you were in a hurry and slipped the nozzle from your car…easily done, well…" he raised his eyebrows and looked up at the man, standing to his full height and never once breaking eye contact, "If you've got something in the car that could or could not wake up and escape…something you didn't want the security cameras to catch"

John had all but lost track a while ago and was now looking at Holmes as he walked back to his end of the table. Pulling up his chair, he sat down on the rickety wood with arrogance,

"The semen crusted on your trousers proves that you have just recently-"however he was interrupted by the door flinging open and Gregg Lestrade appeared from the door way. Panic was flushing his normally tired and exhausting features.

Sherlock didn't even bother to turn around,

"Yes, I _know_ he's just killed again, we were just getting to that now, !" he hollered, his nose wrinkling in anger as he spoke through gritted teeth.

Lestrade stood helplessly in the door way, mouth hanging ajar and his sentence slowly falling from his tongue. Closing his mouth, he looked around, nodded and then quietly shut the door behind him.

"Sherlo-"

"Bad habit isn't it?" he continued, cutting John off (who sighed in annoyance) "Necrophilia…" he smirked, leaning back in his chair. His eyebrows knitted once more.

"So where is the murder weapon, Mr Green?" Holmes hissed at the fat man, interlocking his fingers on the table and leaning forwards.

Mr Green looked as if he was going to collapse onto the floor at any moment, he was in spasms and his face was a milky grey colour.

"How does a man…an ordinary man…get five young women into his car and then leave them with massive holes through their bodies…no struggle…no drugs…just a car" Sherlock bit his lower lip gently as he thought, his eyes practically swimming with the images inside his head.

He glared at the man,

"You look like the antique kind of guy, judging by your clothes, your hair…and those terrible shoes" he said more to himself than anything "A guy like you would be into the old fashioned way of-OH!" the raven haired man triumphed "Oh…of _course!_"

"What, Sherlock…what 'of course'?" John puzzled, trying to wrap his brain around the situation.

"Oh, that's brilliant" he smirked and John could've sworn that the already white face of Mr Green got a little whiter "I should have known, you drive an old car, a man like you would go for no less, probably insisted that it 'ran in your family'" he snorted, adding a little hand movement to heighten his sarcasm

"the girls, or should I say students, that you picked up all had one thing in common when it came to interests…antique electronics" Sherlock smirked, wavering his head a little " you didn't _drug_ the girls, Mr Green, they got in on their own accord,

'There was possibly no chance on earth that any girl- or person in that fact-who was so obsessed with such things would ever turn down the chance to ride an old car such as yours…" he laughed, to himself more than anyone else, and rose from his chair, "Come on John, we're done here" and without warning he had left the interrogation room.

John took one last look at the poor Mr Green, and then set in pursuit of Sherlock…as always.

When John made it out of the room he could see Sherlock discussing something with a very bewildered Lestrade,

"But, Sherlock…" he could hear the very distressed man saying, staring up at Sherlock's frustrated expression with a lock in his muscles that john recognised as the "I'm-trying-so-hard-not-to-punch-you-in-the-face-y ou-prick" restraint.

He should know, he used it often.

"But Sherlock…" he repeated, changing his stance to doubly make sure he wasn't about to punch this man "Where are you going, we still have loads of people to question-"

"No need" Sherlock interrupted him with his usual arrogance "The very man you need is in there" he made a half-hearted point towards the interrogation room.

"Yeah, dying of a heart attack" john added pleasantly before following Sherlock who had started to walk off.

Lestrade stood there dumbfounded for a second before pulling his senses together enough to shout after them,

"But…what about the murder weapon!"

"You're looking for an old car parked out here somewhere…maybe a 1961 Deville" he replied, not bothering to turn around or even stop as he exited the building.

"So…" John started, finally asking the inevitable "What…how did he do it?"

"Oh, come on John, I always took you as stupid, but not this stupid" Sherlock snorted, a smile dancing its way across his cupid bow lips "THINK, what do new cars have that old cars don't?"

John thought for a second, he hardly knew anything about cars. In fact if you were to present him with a Rolls Royce and a Mazda, he'd probably just call them both a car and not give a second thought as to which one was 'worth' what.

"I…" he sighed, not sure whether he wanted to admit this or not "I… Don't know Sherlock, and anyway, what do you know about cars?" John questioned, his face pulled into a perplexed frown.

"Oh, that's not important, John" Sherlock snapped, he face falling to a grimace as he searched the road for oncoming taxis.

John opened his mouth to speak but thought against it, letting a frustrated puff of air escape his lungs instead,

"Okay, Sherlock…what do new cars have that an old car doesn't?" John quizzed, knowing full well that it was pointless.

Sherlock threw him a grin from over his shoulder and then he erupted into so much pure energy and excitement it would put a five year old to shame,

"_STEERING COLUMNS!" _ He shouted as he picked up pace and hailed a nearby taxi.

"Oh, right" John muttered under his breath "Steering columns, fantastic…" as he took off after Sherlock, who has now ducked into the taxi and was waiting for him. His hands were placed neatly on his knees that came up to about his chest in the rather small taxi cab. He looked about as content as a puppy who had just mastered the art of chasing his tail.

Only this time it was John chasing Sherlock's tail, and Sherlock wasn't catching on.

Sherlock watched john as he stooped into the car and got himself settled on the seat, they were quite close together and as the taxi took off, their knees jostled.

Sherlock seemed to take the contact as some sort of 'on switch' for him to start talking,

"I know what you're thinking John…" he started

"When do you not?" John sighed, interrupting Sherlock. Sherlock's face suddenly turned almost dire,

"I didn't mean it like that" he pouted, turning his head away from the army doctor in a way that resembled a teenager sulking, John sighed (once more) and turned to look out of the window, at the grimy faces and buildings whizz past as they travelled through industrial London.

The taxi went over a bump and their knees brushed against each other's once more, John noticed how this time Sherlock tried to close his legs together more, however it wasn't working out; it was a terribly small car.

"What I meant to say is…" Holmes continued, not sounding as enthusiastic as before "…I know what you're thinking as in it's, the idea, of-of the steering column was…erm…"

"Yes, I understand, go on" Dr Watson encouraged, turning his attention back to his friend. In that second, he could practically see the spark and smug demeanour bleed into Sherlock's face once more.

"Well, yes, steering columns John!" he blurted, as if the past mood swing had never existed. John nodded in a way that displayed he held no knowledge at all (a nod he had come to perfect from living with Sherlock Holmes so often) and he could almost taste the amusement that drank up Sherlock's features.

"Oh John, I do envy you sometimes…" he fixed the doctor with one of his famous lop-sided grins, his cyan eyes practically emitting their own light "How you can keep your mind so _simple_" chuckled the detective, turning away from the army doctor as if to wallow in his own arrogance.

This however was blotted out slightly if you took in the detective's long frame hunched up on the car seat, his knees barely reaching his armpits. Even John had to admit (and, not holding back here, but John wasn't the tallest man you could ever meet) but even his knees were beginning to get cramp from being hoisted up.

Holmes eventually turned his attention back to John, giving him another flash of white,

"Visualise it John…" _oh god…_ "Just imagine…" _oh god no, don't tell me to 'imagine' you know I'm bad at that_ "You're driving a, let's say a 1960s Deville, the wide, wooden steering wheel is stretched out in front of you, both hands grip it tightly, your knuckles are white due to burning your brakes out two minutes ago.

'You've been speeding down a hill for all of those two minutes; the open top allows you to feel the wind slamming into your face, suffocating you.

'Your senses are filled with burnt rubber. Nothing but the whistling of wind fills your ears and the clank, clank of your dead brakes.

'But that's not what you're worried about anymore is it? No, now you've spotted it, the tree. You can't steer, power steering wasn't invented. A rush of brown as the bark nears closer, closer, closer. SMACK!"

John flinched; his pulse had raised a good three beats as he imagined himself slamming into this tree…

"Oh, of course…" he wheezed breathlessly "No-no collapsible steering column…that was…that was brilliant" he laughed a little, still a little bit terrified.

Sherlock smiled a little too sweetly despite the words that just came out of his mouth,

"The metal bar, because it would most likely be metal…well, aluminium in you want to be specific, would make you into the most human looking sheesh kebab anyone had ever seen since the police pulled the last one from the steering column…which they would have to do a lot, _here we are_!" the detective suddenly sang, in an oddly good mood.

That is before John remembered that this was Sherlock Holmes, he was always in a good mode when he'd just solved a case.

"So…five girls…just lead into cars because they couldn't resist and then…what…they drove themselves into trees?" John puffed, floundering out of the car as Sherlock paid the cabbie. He had to make double sure to duck under the door or he might be even lighter headed than he already was.

"No and yes" he replied, walking towards the 221 flats, John tagged after him.

"What do you mean, no and yes?"

"Well, the girls would have most likely been driving the car, which explains why Mr Green was so keen to avoid security cameras. Being so_ enthusiastic_-"he spat the word in a sarcastic tone as if he had never felt 'enthusiastic' in his life before "they would definitely never turn down a chance to drive such a beautifully old model" John nodded and watched as Sherlock bent slightly at the knees in order to fit the key into the lock.

The door swung open with a click and Sherlock stepped inside, immediately descending on the staircase and removing his blue scarf as he did so. Leaving John to close the door; again.

_One of these days, I won't be here_ John thought, _I won't be here to close the door, and we'll get burglars and I will do nothing but laugh because you had it coming._

John could here Sherlock carry on his conversation in their flat, as if John was still behind him. It was all but a little funny and heart breaking at the same time.

As John made his way up the stairs he could just hear a muffled,

"…And so you see, John, that's exactly why it-oh." And tried not to giggle.

"Where did you go, I was just talking to you, that's rude you know?" The detective's rumbling voice hit him as he walked through the door and he fixed the taller with a look.

"No Sherlock, I was locking the door, like you always forget to do, remember?"

"I don't forget, I just simply leave it to you because I know you'll do it, problem?" two eyebrows rose on a pale forehead as the detective stripped from his heavy coat and suit jacket, leaving both of them on a crumpled heap on the floor.

John sighed, _nope_ he thought, _nope; he just wants you to pick that up. John Hamish Watson, you are not going to pick that coat and jacket off the floor._

There we go, all hung up and nice. John smiled as he patted a crease from Sherlock's coat and jacket as they hung neatly on the coat racks.

Cold realisation flooded through him…_shit, I just did that…can I not do anything this man wants me to do?!_

"John, come here a second, I want to finish explaining" a voice sliced through from Sherlock's bedroom.

"Okay" no, apparently John could not refuse anything this man told him to do.

When John approached Sherlock's room, he hesitated at the door. He had never really been in Sherlock's room before and on the rare occasions he did have to plunder in here; he was always looking for items of his.

Clothes mostly, Sherlock seemed to have the _I-don't-care-who's-clothes-they-belong-to-so-as-lo ng-as-they-fit-me-even-slightly _output on the washing…well, on life really. At least that's what it felt like for John.

That and they both had the same white shirts…over too many times John had slipped into a crisp white shirt to find it two sizes too big.

"Well, come in then, what are you doing?" Sherlock's velvet voice cut through the atmosphere and roused John from his thoughts.

"Oh, nothing…I was just…" _daydreaming? _ He didn't really know how to finish that sentence.

"-daydreaming" Sherlock finished it for him, apparently unaware that he even did so. That was the thing though; John couldn't help but think as he walked into the detective's cluttered room, they had been sharing a flat for so long now that they even finished each other's sentences.

Just like a mar- John stopped himself from thinking the rest, already cringing.

The detective had apparently flopped belly up onto his bed and was now laid ridged on his covers with his hands pressed together under his chin.

The typical pose for Sherlock Holmes thinking; John tried to imagine what was going through that massive intellect of his but failed every time.

He was quite surprised to see how tense the detective was actually, as he perched in front of the window sill, leaning back on it.

His neck muscles were flexed fiercely enough so John could see a blue vein standing out and snaking up to his jaw line where it seemingly disappeared to reappear again on the detective's forehead.

"Sherlock…are you…"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine" Holmes spat before Watson even managed to get his sentence out.

John knew what it was of course; the great Sherlock Holmes was tired. He was always like this whenever he had just finished a particularly mind straining case.

This case wasn't mind bending as much as just a thing to pass the time…the case before this however was a different breed of case altogether. Too many times the thin detective had had to go running around in the London rain and smog, too many times he had to crawl around on the floors of freezing hospital rooms looking for hints, too many times he kept himself awake thinking through details and staring nonchalantly at his research specimens.

So, yes _Doctor_ John Watson could really see why his friend was exhausted and **_Doctor_** John Watson would really appreciate it if said detective would _shut up_ about that worthless case and go to sleep.

Never the less, Watson of all people knew it was dangerous- if not life threatening- to order the man around in this state of mind, especially when he was desperate to share his deductions with someone.

"Are you listening…?" he muttered, his voice fatigued as John turned away from him to lean on the window sill.

He looked out over London with its zooming businessmen in their fancy cars clogging up the roads, at the grubby youths wearing hoodies and spitting on the streets and for once wished that he was somewhere else.

With Sherlock of course.

"Yes, yes, go on…although I really think that you should-"

"Nonsense, I'm fine…" there was a slight rustling of bed clothes as his best friend obviously turned his head to look at him, "You really ought to start worrying about yourself, Doctor" he snapped.

"Alright, I was only trying to help" John hissed back "God…sorry for being…_nice_" he shrugged dramatically, at a loss for words really.

The detective turned his head back on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling,

"So, these girls were just happily driving along, more or likely with Mr Green sat beside them…even more likely to be rummaging through his glove compartment…" his rich baritone voice rang out through the room, slowly picking up it's normal 100mh pace.

"Why?" John inquired, he felt Sherlock turn to him again as he watched the freshly falling downpour that showered London.

"Isn't it obvious, John?"

"No, no Sherlock, it's only obvious to you…" the detective huffed in annoyance and John felt himself prickle despite himself.

"The little rips on his cuff and grease on his fingerprints was enough to say. He'd been inventing.

'Niggling around in that car until he got what he wanted, something very powerful.

'Something he used to kill those girls"

"Hey, wait, I thought we agreed that they were killed because of the steering column impaling them" John was more than a little confused now, and hurt to say the less. Did Sherlock lie to him to make himself seem clever?

It seemed plausible.

"YES. John, that's exactly it!" John faced the detective just as he swung his legs around to sit up, his brows furrowed into his forehead. "Urgh! Why are you _so stupid_ sometimes!?" Holmes ran his hands though his hair with frustration.

"Well, explain then Sherlock…" Watson folded his arms across his chest.

Sherlock gave him a look from under his fringe.

"The girls just wouldn't _drive_ themselves into walls, John!" he exclaimed "They had to have someone to do it for them, but so discreetly so that they wouldn't know what was happening or scream for help.

'Oh, Mr Green was clever…but obviously not that clever"

"Obviously" John added with a sigh.

Sherlock, relaxed a little now, shifted himself so he was laid on his back again in the very same fashion John had seen him in when he walked into the room.

"he'd fiddled around with the fuses…found the right ones, tampered with them a bit so when the time came just a simple yank and it would do the trick."

"What…what would do the trick Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed melodramatically,

"He would stall the car John!" he snapped

"Oh, I see, and so therefore throwing the girls forward without warning and…"

"Yes, exactly" Sherlock blinked and John could see he was finding it hard to make his eyelids come up again without his eyes rolling back in the bliss that is sleep.

"So, what about the bodies, the police couldn't find them for days" he quizzed, leaning back with high amusement to see his friend struggling with 'transport'.

"Mr Green had dogs…a lot of them in fact" his rich voice was nothing but a mumbled whisper by now, his verdigris eyes half closed on the world.

"Oh, really, do elaborate" John all but chuckled; Sherlock had got himself into this mess so he wasn't getting out of it too easily.

"He…he buried-" cut off mid-way by a yawn "He buried the corpses a good few feet in the ground, then he…"

John watched as the great Sherlock Holmes stopped mid-sentence to allow his eyelids to close fully, sleep claiming him within near seconds.

The doctor sighed,

"And that was just getting interesting as well."

He shook his head and tip toed out of the room the best he could, not that he had to bother.

He could make as much noise as he wanted and it still wouldn't wake Sherlock from his "post-case slumber" as John liked to call it.

After every emotionally and physically draining case Sherlock got assigned to, he would always do this; go into this post-case slumber.

Sometimes it would last days and leave Sherlock bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and sometimes it would only last an hour and Sherlock would be on his man-periods for a week or so.

John hoped it wasn't one of those times.

Well, now it was John's 'me time'.

Oh.

John hadn't had 'me time' in what felt like years, what does one do on one's 'me time'?

.

.

.

Reviews are really appreciated! Thanks for reading, the next chapter will be up as soon as I can finish it!

I have a Tumblr account if you want to follow me! moki-san is my url!


	2. The case of the ill detective

Hello, welcome to the second chapter of I AM SMUT LOCKED!

Again, no smut just yet (Sorry!) but there is very fluffy male bonding and motherly!john.

anyway, I hope you enjoy, for disclaimers see the first chapter.

.

.

.

John placed his empty mug, of which once contained tea, on the arm of the chair where it balanced carefully.

The woman crying over dramatically on the television had become old some time ago but John was still watching it intently, as if just staring at it would make it less crap.

Welcome to British TV on a lonely Wednesday evening.

John was about to make the uncountable amount of effort to get up and switch the channel when suddenly a clunk resounded throughout the whole house.

Followed by a gut wrenching wail.

"Oh shit!" John cursed and hopped to his feet in an instance, "Sherlock!" he hollered, appearing at the detective's door a second later "Sherlock, are you ok-?"

Said detective was sprawled on the wooden floor of his dingy room, writhing like he was having some sort of seizure. He wailed again, trying to claw at the floorboards beneath his fingernails.

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock what's the matter, tell me what the matter is!?" the doctor hurried up to his friend, kneeling down to try and comfort the tossing and turning individual, "Sherlock, you need to speak, what's wrong?" the army doctor side of him was trying to stay calm, but the best friend side of him was panicking.

And it seemed the best friend side of him was also winning.

Sherlock twitched at the sound of the doctor's voice and his pale eyes flew open in an instant.

"Oh god, John" he huffed, clinging to John's shirt the best he could from the floor, almost ripping the damn thing off him as he pulled himself up to face level. Sherlock's pupils had blown up an incredible amount; this was already setting alarm bells off in John's medical mind.

"John, I can't…I can't breathe, help me John!" he wheezed, breathing heavily as he hung from John's shirt, his head lulled forwards onto his chest.

"Okay, Sherlock, calm down, just breathe" the doctor panicked, using this chance to feel the back of Sherlock's neck.

Jesus Christ, he was so hot it would put Satan himself to shame.

"Just…calm down, breath with me okay" Watson took a deep breath in through his nose and felt Sherlock mimic him shakily. They did this for a while until Sherlock completely dropped his head into Watson's lap and began screaming in terror, grabbing at his throat.

"Sherlock, what's wrong!?" John tried to remove the man's hands from his own throat.

"John, it's got me John!" he cried

"No, Sherlock, nothings got you, you have a fever…" John concluded because that's what it must have been, just from looking at Sherlock's hair he could see he was drenched in sweat. "…Just calm down, okay, it's going to be alright."

Sherlock groaned and rolled off Watson's lap and onto the cold floor, pawing at his sweat drenched shirt,

"Oh god, I'm so hot…I think I'm gonna burn, John help me" he whined, tugging uselessly at his clothes.

John sighed, still ever demanding even when he was ill.

"Sherlock, wait..." the doctor insisted, taking the detectives hands from all but ripping the expensive material of his shirt. "Let's get you up off the floor first."

It was definitely easier said than done.

Sherlock was a tall man, taller than John, and in this state he was all but dead weight in the doctor's arms.

Hooking his arms around his chest from behind the detective, John managed to pull him into a sitting position; Then proceeding to pull him to his feet.

Sherlock lost his footing and fell backwards into the army doctor who stumbled into the bedside table with a howl.

Holmes' head rested back on Watson's shoulder, his eyes squinted closed and breathing heavily.

There was an attempt, John noted, for the thin man to move on his own, but it resulted in nothing but him slamming back into the latter again and causing him to supress a scream as the table delved further into his back.

Taking a firmer hold on the man this time, determined not to get this wrong, John managed to hoist the detective to his feet with success.

It was all blind movement from there on, Sherlock was much taller than John so John's face was pressed into Sherlock's shoulder blade as he guided him to where he hoped there was a chair.

The heat of Holmes' back was making John sweat himself and he wouldn't be surprised if he was left with a shoulder blade shaped burn mark on his cheek when he pulled away.

Eventually Sherlock stumbled face first into the back of the chair that was in the corner of his room; he groaned and shakily turned himself round to sit, using John as a support.

"Right…" John started, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders "I'm gonna get you undressed and then get you all cleaned up, okay?"

Sherlock gazed into John's cool blue eyes, his own cloudy with fatigue and fever. John could see that he couldn't understand a word he was saying and that made an odd sense of pride swell up in his chest.

Sherlock didn't know what was going on, his feverish mind couldn't process the information or options in front of him yet he chose to put his full trust in John, not thinking or even considering that John would do anything bad to him in this state.

Yes, it was pride, pride and…something else.

Something he didn't want to think about right now, so he pushed it to the back of his mind and instead focused on the suffering man in front of him.

"Right, okay, I'm just going to unbutton your shirt"- _he didn't want to scare Sherlock, right?_

John thought he said that more to put his own nerves at bay, undressing your male flatmate when you are too a male can be an embarrassing task.

Bringing his shaking hands to the detective's heaving chest was fine, it just seemed the unbuttoning was the bit that had his heart in his mouth and his hands stalling.

'_For god's sake, John' _he scolded himself _'be a man, you've had to do much worse in the army!_' and with that final thought, he abandoned any feeling of guilt and embarrassment and just went in with his head down.

It was like opening an oven door; moist heat hit him square in the face coupled by the stench of sweat and musk. It wasn't entirely unpleasant but, dear god.

John tried not to let his eyes linger over the pale man's glistening chest too long, it's just he'd never seen Sherlock Holmes- _the _Sherlock Holmes- even mildly unclothed before.

Even the event at Buckingham palace hadn't really counted as it was only his back, but this, this was personal; this was something a lover would see.

He felt heat and fear flush through his body, almost like a cold realisation that started from the crown of his head and washed through him in an instance.

_Just ignore it, John, don't be so ridiculously…ridiculously…just don't be an idiot._

Suddenly, pale hands batted John's away as Sherlock made much quicker work of clumsily removing his shirt, peeling the material from his drenched back.

The poor man was suffering and could very well have fainted from overheating and here John was, battling his thoughts as to whether or not Sherlock would care about this.

Hell, he probably wouldn't even remember this by the time the fever broke.

His long fingers moved down to his trousers to make work of his belt but they were slick with sweat and he couldn't get a grip. It didn't seem like an overall easy task so John took over.

"Okay, to make this easy Sherlock, I need you to stand up" John tried, knowing that he wouldn't hear him anyway.

Grabbing Holmes under his arms, John had to supress a gasp at the intense heat he found there. Never the less he pulled him up onto unsteady legs.

Sherlock's head lulled forwards onto John's shoulder, leaving him to grope blindly for Sherlock's belt. He really wasn't making this easy. John already had to use his other hand on Holmes' forearm so as to stop himself toppling back against the weight, and he couldn't see a thing with his chin resting on the man's hot shoulder.

Jesus, this had to be easier.

Abandoning all hope as to whether Sherlock would stand or fall, John knelt down to make the job easier.

He worked as Sherlock's belt within seconds, whipping the leather from its holsters and placing it besides him.

Sherlock had apparently decided it would be helpful for him to drape himself over John's back, making the only easy way for John to get this done to be if he pressed his cheek against his flatmate's stomach.

It was most definitely not helpful but it did protect some of Sherlock's decency as he now couldn't see a thing once more.

Managing at last to undo Sherlock's buttons and fly, he hooked his thumbs with confidence he didn't feel into the hems of both his trousers and underwear, pulling them down in one swooping motion.

He had the last minute thought to grab the detective's ankles and help guide his feet out of the clothing, so he wouldn't trip.

"Sherlock…" he started, moving briefly to let his friend know he wanted to stand up "Sherlock, you need to stand up now." John sighed and stood up without warning, catching the detective before he fell flat on his back.

He searched his soul with those wide eyes again, not knowing what would happen next, barely even realising that he was now stood stark naked in front of his flatmate.

"Right." John nodded more to himself, as if checking off things to do on a check list.

Taking Sherlock's arms seemed like an easy thing to do if the man hadn't stumbled back into the chair as soon as John moved out of his sight.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." He groaned, pulling him up to his feet once more and sternly guiding him towards the on suite bathroom.

Right, this was either going to go amazingly easy or tragically terrible, there was no in between with Sherlock Holmes.

Gripping the poor man's arm a little harder than he had over all intended, John tried to lean Sherlock against the bathroom wall as he headed over to the grand, china bath.

'_This was going to be fun' _Watson chided to himself.

Reaching out a surprisingly free from sweat hand, he turned the great brass knob of the tap and watched the water splutter out. John rolled the sleeves of his dress shirt up above his elbows and firmly pushed the plug into its provided hole. Asoft whooshing noise filled the room as the bath began to fill with hot water.

John heard Sherlock whimper next to him, the bathroom wasn't very spacious (barely having enough space to fit a toilet, a sink and this monstrosity of a bath as it was)so John wasn't really surprised when he felt Sherlock's head plant firmly on his shoulder again.

'_Good god' _he thought to himself '_It's a bloody good thing I'm a doctor!'_

Well, _ex_-doctor; that stung a bit but it was true.

Still, no reason to believe that he had lost all his knowledge; he had had it forced into him through harsh training and a lot of blood.

Thank god there was no blood present with Sherlock.

The ex-soldier sighed and dipped his hand into the scolding water, gasping and pulling back straight away afterwards.

Maybe it would be a good idea to add the cold water now, just a thought.

What with John's arm now a burnt red colour up to his elbow, it might just be a very good idea indeed. Forcing the hot tap to squeak to a stop, John leant across to turn the cold tap into motion; only to discover it wouldn't budge.

"Bloody bath." He muttered to himself, hitting it with the heel of his hand and cracking the stiff copper into full gush.

The harsh movement had knocked Sherlock of balance and now he was, once more, gripping at the lapel of John's shirt while resting his head in the crook of his own arm.

Well, that almost pulled John into the bath, but he steadied himself against the edge of the tub.

He was still a little shit even when he was unaware of what he was doing.

"John…" his baritone voice moaned helplessly.

"Sshh, you're going to be fine, I'm just running you a bath, okay?" the doctor soothed, patting his flatmate awkwardly on the head.

Did he just pat Sherlock Holmes on the head?

Did he just pat _the_ Sherlock Holmes on the head like some sort of _dog!?_

John sighed in humiliation. Well, at least he wasn't going to remember anything.

He dared to dip his hand once more into the not-so-scolding water and smiled at the result.

Now, the difficult bit; getting this stubborn bastard _into_ the bath.

Knocking the stiff handle back into place, John moved cautiously, trying not to alert the detective too much as he dried his hands on his trousers.

"Right, erm, Sherlock…" he started, carefully removing the detective's hand from pretty much tearing his shirt to shreds. He held him a little more gently by his arm now so he didn't fall "We need to get you in now."

Sherlock blinked his verdigris orbs at his highly trusted flat mate and nodded slowly.

John was happy that Sherlock seemed to be responding now, but his temperature still hadn't gone down and he could tell by just looking at him that he was still sweating like a two penny whore on double pay.

"Right, okay…" John grabbed the other man's leg and helped him hoist it into the bath tub, feeling the puff of a gasp against the back of his neck as Sherlock's sweat chilled skin made contact with the hot water.

After a lot of struggle and John eventually getting so wet that he might as well be in the tub with Sherlock, Holmes was finally in the bath. Goosebumps had risen on his skin and he was shivering despite the hot water that John was now helpfully sloshing against his back.

Sherlock had his knees drawn up against his chest and probably looked the most venerable and tired John had ever seen him look. The army doctor picked up a nearby sponge and continued to drown it in the hot water, rinsing it over Sherlock's back once more.

"Don't worry…" he spoke softly, feeling that Sherlock was oddly sensitive when he was ill, he definitely wasn't his usual arrogant self that was for sure, "It's only a little fever, it'll pass, you're going to be okay."

Holmes sniffed glumly, staring point blank at the end of the bath. He sighed and buried his lower face in his arms so only his luminescent eyes peered over the alabaster skin.

John sighed. It seemed Mr Holmes was also quite emotional when he was ill, which came to a bit of a change to John, who was so used to seeing a closed off man.

John squeezed the sponge over Sherlock's neck and watched as the hairs there stood on end and then brushed the sponge soothingly over his friend's back.

He managed to give his flatmate a proper, almost clinical wash without much complaint. Sherlock's limbs might as well have been boneless in his grip, which made it easier for him to wash under his arms and chest.

"Right now, time to just wash your hair and then we're done and you can sleep." He prattled on, finishing his sentence with a reassuring smile.

John hoisted up from his haunches and scouted around the crowded bathroom for something that would hold water. He found a bowl but evidently was almost sick in the sink when he realised it was full to the brim with decaying cockroaches.

"Urgh, shit Sherlock, that's disgusting!" the doctor exclaimed, Sherlock just groaned softly and gently bit his arm…He'd been doing that throughout the whole bath.

It was most likely a nervous thing, his body was responding to him being in such a vulnerable state but couldn't react due to the fever boiling in his veins.

Retching as he swiftly emptied the roaches into the bin, John almost washed the very existence of the bowl away in the sink; considering bleach but deciding against it.

When Watson was sure the bowl had been successfully reborn, he padded back over to the bath where Sherlock had started to shiver again.

His glassy eyes flickered towards his flatmate as he approached, watching him slowly but not really taking anything in properly. Sherlock blinked his dark lashes and his eyes fixed on the bowl John was holding in his hands.

Eyebrows furrowed in confusion across porcelain skin, his bright orbs clumsily eyeing John once more but as he opened his mouth to speak, John shushed him.

Speaking seemed like too much effort at the moment for his ill friend, so he was better off not doing it. Doctor's orders.

Plus, it was a bonus every now and then _not_ to hear the detective's full toned voice calling out to John, or even talking to himself.

"No, no, hush." John stressed, gently pulling the detective back towards him as he cowered in the corner. The fevered hallucinations were coming back and it seemed, this time, in full force.

The doctor's fingertips brushed over the chilled skin of his friend in an attempt to steer him into a more comfortable position, unfortunately Sherlock was having none of it.

As soon as the calloused hands touched his arm, he yelped and jerked away from them at high speed to the other side of the bath, in all the hurry he even smacked his head against the wall but he didn't seem to care.

"Sh-Sherlock, it's okay…" John panicked, wondering if this was going to pass without some fatal accident.

The water sloshed around the taller man's waist as he scrambled to push his back further into the wall, his pupils had shrunk to small dots that swam in the ocean of his eyes and his chest was rising and falling rapidly.

Overall, he looked pretty terrified.

"Ssshh now, it's me remember…it's John…" the doctor eased himself towards the panicked sleuth "…You know…your 'best friend'." he inclined his head sarcastically, fully aware Sherlock was in no state to concentrate on whether that was sarcasm or not.

Sherlock whimpered and continued to struggle but soon realised that there was nowhere else for him to go.

"Now, now…" John moved slowly, gently filling the bowl with the-surprisingly still warm- water and holding it steady. The detective watched his every move with frightening accuracy despite his clouded mind.

"…Just…" he reached out is free hand, carefully inching it towards Sherlock who scowled at it as if it had murdered his family. Wetting his lips, John tentatively grasped the back of the sleuth's neck and eased him forwards.

Said sleuth stiffened in his grip and did all that he could to stop him from coming any closer to the doctor, even if it meant thrashing about like a dying sea lion.

Watson sighed and held back a yelp as he was splashed with yet more of Sherlock's bath water; it seemed Sherlock was having a very Sherlock-like tantrum.

By which is meant that he is an annoying little bastard like always.

"Oh for god's sake, Sherlock!" John roared and tipped the entirety of the bowl over the flailing detective's head.

Well, that shut him up.

Sherlock spluttered like a baby kitten that had just fallen into her milk and quickly balled his fists into his eyes to clear them of water, gasping all the while.

"Well then…" John smirked, leaning over to pick up some sort of shampoo bottle. Double checking to make sure it wasn't full of battery acid or something, he squeezed a generous amount into his palm.

Sherlock was sat up straight in the tub now, his face a picture of a pouting child.

John laughed,

"Are we quite alright now…no…you know…strange octopi coming to disrupt your wonderful salon session?" Sherlock continued to remain stony up until when John began to lather the shampoo into his curled locks; then his expression softened.

It reminded John very much of a cat in the sense that he could be a foul tempered little shite but would soften up if it involved him.

And he was by no way referring to the quite purr that vibrated from the man's throat, oh god no.

Watson continued to work the shampoo through his rich curls, denying the fact that he'd secretly wanted to do this for a while now, just to see what his hair felt like.

Well, it felt like…hair.

Sherlock keened into the touch and John still couldn't deny that his fever was going as strong as ever, he could feel the heated scalp under his fingertips and just knew that the rest of his body felt like that.

"Right then…" he brought his hands away from the other's head and washed the suds off into the bath, retrieving the bowl once more and filling it with water, "Close your eyes." He warned.

Sherlock obeyed, something he usually wouldn't do if he wasn't ill but never the less, John didn't take it for granted.

Carefully- an adjective John seemed to be repeating in his mind a lot- he tilted the sleuth's head back and gently poured the water over his head to rid his curls from suds. Sherlock gasped as the water cascaded over his scalp but otherwise stayed still, thankfully.

The doctor repeated this few times, each time making sure that the suds were slowly disappearing, and when he was absolutely sure his friend's scalp was rinsed through properly he pulled the plug.

The water made a gurgling noise as it escaped down the drain…John found himself wishing he could do the same thing, as now it was time.

Time to get this difficult and obstinate bastard _out_ of the bath.

Holmes looked at his friend, confusion clouded his eyes along with the fever and it overall made the man look very drunk. John wet his lips and stood up, trying to think of the best way to go about this.

He glanced down at the sad, sorry looking and wet detective that now sat in an empty bath and was reminded of a homeless dog.

"Right then…um…" nervously, the doctor grabbed Sherlock under the arms, the detective froze but then seemed to register what was happening. He steadied his pale and soaked hands on John's shoulders as he stood, stepping clumsily over the edge of the bath and almost knocking the doctor to the floor as he stumbled into him.

"S-sorry." His rich voice croaked and John was surprised to hear the first words the man had spoken in a good three quarters of an hour.

"N-nah, it's nothing." He tried to brush it off but he was more than a little angry that the detective had managed to get him fully soaked now, and a little flushed at the fact Sherlock had actually said sorry to him.

That just wasn't natural of him; John put it down to the fever.

Sherlock shivered against him and brought the soldier back to his full attention._ Right, towel_.

He didn't want Sherlock to catch a cold as well as a fever, which would be horrendous. Not to mention a bad move for him as a doctor.

Risking to lean back a little, John managed to snag a clean-ish looking towel from a rack not far from his reach.

Hell, anything wasn't far from his reach in this tiny bathroom.

Tentatively, he wrapped the towel around Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock took it thankfully, resting his head on John's shoulder…again!

As if John's shirt could get any wetter anyway.

No it was fine, it was only his _best_ shirt, nothing- you know- _major._

The doctor took a step backwards and sighed when Sherlock almost fell to the floor, unable to stand without his support.

"Jesus, Sherlock…" he groaned, taking the detectives towel clad shoulders and leading him (backwards) out of the bathroom, which was easier for Sherlock than it was John as John couldn't see where he was going, "Can you actually do _anything_ without my help?"

John knew the answer to that, and the answer was no…no he couldn't.

Watson hissed as his calf hit a chair and he almost fell backwards into it, but he corrected himself quickly and manoeuvred himself around said annoying furniture without much grace.

Sherlock was staring him in the eyes the whole time and it was actually starting to get so uncomfortable that John had to look away.

Finally John found the bed, well, almost _fell over_ the bed would be a better way to put it. The doctor spun his friend around a little too quickly for his poor fevered head and sat him firmly down on his bed, briefly making sure he was dried off properly.

Shit, he was still boiling.

John knew the first place he'd be visiting as soon as he got a spare minute and that would be the pharmacy, no doubting it.

"Right then, I'll just..." and then he paused, because he was going to say 'I'll get you something to wear' but then realised he didn't know where Sherlock kept his clothes, let alone what would be suitable for him to wear to bed.

Looking around for a quick substitute, he noticed one of Holmes' dressing gowns crumpled on the floor, the checked one as it was.

'_That'll do'_ he thought to himself as he risked moving away from his dearest friend to go pick it up.

Upon turning back, it appeared Sherlock had fallen to sleep on the spot, sat up in his bed; John would be lying if he said that wasn't the tiniest bit adorable.

"Okay then Mr 'Transport'…" he chuckled and gently fed his long, porcelain arms through the sleeves of his dressing gown, wrapping it around him and laying him down "…not so 'overrated' now, is it?"

John left the room altogether a bit more shaken up than he had been watching that terrible soap opera, leaving the door open to hear for any noise as he picked his mug up from where it was still balanced- '_well, at least some things do as I tell them'-_ and taking it into the kitchen to wash.

This was going to be a long week, John could sense it.

.

.

.

Thanks for reading! the next chapter will have smut, i promise!

But as for now, please please please leave a comment, they make me write faster!


	3. The Case of The Aroused Detective

Yay, it's finally done! I'm so sorry about the wait, a lot of things came up including my exams and my laptop deciding to break. :(

But now it's fixed and here is the new chapter!

Hope you enjoy, smut ahoy! (hey that rhymes)

Disclaimer: I own nothing! (see the first chapter for a more mature disclaimer)

.

.

.

Hot, wet…_steamy._

_Oh god_.

A shower sounded so delicious right now that John Watson was practically fantasizing about it.

_'Bloody hell man, how can you fantasize about a shower?!'_

Obviously it was possible because the doctor was doing it right now, imagining about how the water would feel running down his back as if he would never see a shower again.

It certainly felt like that.

But no, he couldn't do that.

That meant risking leaving Sherlock alone while he slept in a fever induced stupor, what if he was to wake up screaming again?

No, no he couldn't be dealing with that while being only half dressed from the shower, as if the fact of Sherlock wearing nothing but one of his silken dressing gowns wasn't embarrassing enough.

No, no, that would be bad.

So here he sat, shower deprived and still damp from his one-sided affair with the bath, in Sherlock's room.

Well, someone had to keep an eye on him didn't they?

And it certainly wasn't going to be Mrs Hudson, despite her protests.

He wasn't completely alone though, it's not like he just plonked himself down on the armchair in the corner of the room and just _stared_ as his flatmate as he slept!

_God no!_

John had his laptop with him, balanced neatly on the arm of the chair so if he had to get up in a hurry, it wouldn't cascade to the floor.

And what was John doing on his laptop I hear you ask?

Well, nothing really.

Actually, that wasn't entirely true. John was surfing the web to see if he could help his fevered friend in anyway.

He already had his medical bag (something he'd kept with him from his travels in the army) propped up against the side of the chair and he had sent Mrs Hudson on an errand to the pharmacy, but there was always something else he could do.

Just what?

I suppose that didn't matter until he found it.

Watson looked over at the detective where he lay, half in the sheets, half out of them and looking like a passed out stripper wearing nothing but a scanty gown. His face was pained however, and that was never a good thing.

But oh god, John was _so _tired.

Just looking at his flat share's bed (whether it had him in it or not) was making John's weary bones ache in fatigue.

_'No, get it together John!'_

Sherlock mumbled quietly in his sleep and John froze, searching for any signs that he would wake up shrieking once again.

All went silent and John slowly continued with his typing…_slowly_ in every sense of the word.

So far he had found nothing of interest, well, a part from the things that he already knew.

John shuffled slightly in the armchair, thinking over the amount of heat that Sherlock was producing when he last touched him.

Was it over 100 degrees?

If it was then John would have to chip in, but if it wasn't there was little he could do until the fever naturally broke.

Leaving it a second or two to let the idea to fizz in his brain, John reached beside him to pull his medical bag into his lap.

Surely he was bound to have a thermometer in here somewhere?

He was careful not to elbow his laptop to the floor as he unzipped the heavy kit and rummaged around inside of it.

It smelt of musk and sand, it wasn't an overall unwelcoming smell, but I brought back unwelcome memories.

John pushed them to the far back of his mind to deal with later, now wasn't the time.

After a lot of pushing things around John was wondering whether or not he in fact _did_ own a thermometer until he found it rolling about loose at the bottom.

Thank everything that was thank-able that it wasn't broken.

He set the bag back against the chair and, with thermometer in hand, got up carefully and padded towards his sleeping flat mate.

Sherlock stirred in his sleep and rolled onto his stomach as if he knew someone was approaching him.

Hell, knowing Sherlock Holmes he probably _did_ know.

Well, it was going to be harder to put the thermometer in his mouth at this angle; John had to think of a suitable replacement.

Anywhere where there were any glands or would trap the most heat would do, so John settled for under Sherlock's arms.

John hovered awkwardly for a bit before perching himself on the side of the bed, just the very feel of mattress under his knees was enough to make him want to sleep on the spot but he pulled himself together.

Wetting his lips, the doctor slowly and gently took Sherlock's forearm and parted it from his body, peeling the material of the gown over his shoulder so the thermometer could touch his bare skin and not the silk.

_'Easy does it John'_ he warned himself as he edged the thermometer closer to Sherlock's skin, 'Y_ou don't want to wake Mr 'Sleeping Beauty' here do you?'_

No, that would be a bad move.

Sherlock's shoulder was shining with sweat and it made the usually creamy skin look waxy and pasty.

John was trying to be as careful as he could, god forbid Sherlock wakes up again because that might just mean that John will get no sleep whatsoever.

Suddenly, Sherlock moaned loudly and John almost dropped everything.

The doctor froze in his position, kneeling on the edge of Sherlock's bed with his arms gently gripping his forearm and the other holding a thermometer that was hovering inches from its destination.

'_Please don't wake up, please don't wake up, please don't wake up…' _John chanted to himself over and over in his head.

Everything was silent for a while, waiting.

Sherlock moaned again and fidgeted around in his duvet, which almost gave John a heart attack.

John risked a peek at Sherlock's face to see if he was in any pain.

Well, no, but he didn't look happy that was for sure.

Almost as quickly as he had turned onto his front, Sherlock was now sprawled on his back again, that god forsaken robe hung over his porcelain frame just slightly.

John would have been embarrassed at his flatmate's naked form…that is if he had time for that stuff.

But for now, his army mind was set.

Mission: get this damn thermometer to take this bastard's god damn temperature already!

Unfortunately, he had lost his grip on Sherlock's forearm as he had thrashed onto his back once more, so now he had to make do with the other underarm that had become available to him.

'_Right, now John, you're gonna do this even if this complicated prick is thrashing like a wounded seal'_

Wetting his lower lip again, he tentatively gripped the other arm of Sherlock's, sliding the cold glass of the thermometer to his underarm.

Holmes flinched slightly at the cold but otherwise made no more complaints.

_'God, finally!'_

Waiting a second for the alcohol to adjust to Sherlock's heat, John craned his neck to look at the display.

85 degrees, unfortunately this meant there was nothing he could do except nurse his flat share through the worst of it.

Mrs Hudson should be here with some prescribed paracetamol that he would have to get Sherlock to take soon…oh god that was going to be fun.

The doctor had removed the thermometer and placed it on the bedside table and, despite himself, had manoeuvred his form so that he was more comfortable on Sherlock's bed.

I mean, he was only human, surely he deserved some sleep?

And Sherlock was usefully only taking one side of the queen bed…

No, what was he saying? He had to be a responsible doctor.

A wave of fatigue swept over him like an ocean's breeze, making his limbs weak underneath his weight. His eyelids were heavy and John could hardly keep them from shuttering over his blood-shot eyes.

Oh, to hell with responsibility, he needed _sleep!_

The tired doctor perched himself on the very edge of the bed, the side that wasn't being used by Sherlock, still he didn't want to take any risks.

If Sherlock happened to move unknowingly to this side, with all hope in mind John would fall straight off the edge and wake up without the risk of embarrassing situations.

Apart from maybe a headache.

'_Just five minutes…just to rest my eyes, that's all…'_

Of course that's what he told himself as he settled on the colder (unused) pillow of the bed. Sleep swept over him in gentle waves of drowsiness until it finally claimed him.

…

John was stirred from his sleep by the mattress shifting slightly under him, he ignored it the best he could as his eyelids drooped again.

'_No, not yet, I'm not ready to wake up yet, just…'_

A moan sounded from next to him and John cracked a heavy eyelid open with much more effort that you would like to consider.

Sherlock was laid on his back, tangled up in his sheets and robe in a surprisingly dignified fashion despite his full frontal nudity. His exposed chest was drenched in sweat and his face was contorted in a scared and slightly pained expression as if he was a five year old in the throes of a nightmare.

John really couldn't be bothered with nightmares, he was almost forty for Christ's sake and he was goddamn _tired_!

Sherlock let out a strangled cry just as John closed his eyes once more; he sighed and cracked the other open this time.

He waited, hoping that it would just disappear without him doing anything.

Holmes thrashed about a bit and sobbed throatily.

Watson grumbled and begrudgingly shuffled forwards in the most '_I'm-tired-and-pissed-off'_ sort of way until he was close to Sherlock.

Hazy with slumber and not caring what he did so long as he got to go back to said slumber, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's chest, raking the other one through his hair soothingly the way a mother would.

"Ssssh, it's all okay now…" he cooed, his voice barely above a whisper in Sherlock's ear and slurred from tiredness.

Sherlock stiffened slightly but eventually softened into the touch, even keening into it at some points.

John didn't care because John was on the blissful border of consciousness and sleep once more and he accepted it with a whole heart.

…

The pipes rattled fiercely from Mrs Hudson's kitchen, the noise groaning up to the on-suite bathroom in Sherlock's room and waking John from his snooze.

Blinking his sore eyes from sleep, he whimpered slightly as he came to the conclusion that he would have to get up now.

The doctor was also surprised to find a very flustered looking Sherlock panting in his arms; John studied the man's face for any signs of discomfort but was slightly confused as to when he found none.

He really hoped his temperature hadn't risen while John was sleeping.

Sherlock bucked his head out slightly, rubbing his hot cheek against John's scratchy jumper; He let out a moan once more, but this wasn't a moan of pain or discomfort.

John's stomach turned cold.

_'Oh'_

Now he noticed it, the tent that had formed in the sheets where Sherlock was covered (thank god!) and he felt his mouth run dry.

He should move, he should give his friend some privacy, right?

Well, this was difficult for two reasons…

1; Being that Sherlock's head was laid heavily on John's shoulder and if he dared to move, he risked waking the sleeping detective and causing them both a bit of terrible embarrassment.

2; The poor bastard obviously hasn't experienced something like this before as he seemed to be trying to get friction from the flimsy sheets.

That made John feel a little bit sorry for the poor sod, I mean he had seen this sort of stuff before in the army but at least the guys there had the good sense to find stronger friction.

Well, he _was_ a doctor and he had had to do much worse, right?

And there was no harm in helping out a friend, right?

Oh hell, what was he saying?!

Was he seriously considering helping his flat mate get off!?

You know what? He should just leave now, just squeeze his way out, get up and go have a long think about himself in the living room.

At least he would of but the more Holmes attempted to find release in thin linen, the more breathless moans that spilled from his mouth and frustrated growls rose in his throat.

He was making this decision a very hard one for John.

Oh now wait, what was he saying?!

He wasn't gay-oh hell with it, he wanted to get his friend off; might as well admit to it John Watson.

He breathed heavily through his nose, controlling this new and quite confusing sensation that had drowned his senses.

Which was tough because suddenly his senses were filled completely with Sherlock; his strong sent of musk and testosterone washed through his nostrils and made the blood leave his brain and pool in his stomach.

Not going anywhere, just pooling in his gut, giving his belly a warm and floating feeling as he watched his friend's stomach muscles flutter as he bucked up into the sheet.

Sherlock again tipped his head back and John could feel the sleuth's breath and empty growls pant out against his ear, making short ripples of pleasure shoot down his spine.

_Oh god, no John, what are you thinking?!_

It didn't matter what he was thinking right now because right now, he wanted Sherlock and that was all he knew.

Even the idea of involving himself sexually with another man didn't hit him, at this moment in time he didn't even see Sherlock as a man; he saw him as a person.

Not a gender.

And at the moment he desired this person, Sherlock Holmes.

And he just so happened to be a man.

Holmes croaked a moan breathlessly into John's ear, his hips thrusting up once more in a futile attempt of friction.

Watson was perfectly still, his arm draped lazily over Sherlock's chest, watching as the muscles shifted beneath his skin when he moved; it was beautiful but also very arousing.

John could feel the blood that was pooled in his gut slowly move south to his groin and it was suddenly difficult to make decisions for himself anymore.

_'Okay Watson, now what? You just toss off your friend? You've never even given a hand job before you nut case!' _

John sighed lightly and a little shaken as Sherlock unknowingly whimpered against his earlobe.

_'Oh does it matter?! Just do something before you change your mind!'_

The doctor lightly splayed his hand against the expanse of Sherlock's chest, relishing as he felt the muscles move and twitch, hot under his palm.

His skin was silky despite being moist with sweat and as John slowly graced his fingers over Holmes' stomach, the muscles there tightened and shivered; his skin broke out in small goose bumps.

Sherlock whined against John's neck, his hips giving a few more frantic thrusts before he growled in frustration once more.

John's mind was moving his body on his own now; his hand was caressing the fleshy skin of Holmes' stomach; his fingers just barely fluttering over the sheet that concealed his clothed erection.

The detective squirmed into the sheets, his white knuckles gripped the material besides of him and yet another moan tearing from his throat and vibrating through John's spine.

Without thinking, John shuffled about a bit on the mattress. His member was now hard with arousal and excitement as to what he was doing, so much that it was beginning to become painful.

John had never gotten this hard in such a small space of time before, it was altogether a new experience to want to be touched so badly when nothing has even started yet.

The detective panted and rolled his hips up as John's hand ghosted over his erection and down his thigh. The sheet was smooth and hot under the doctor's fingertips and he sheepishly grabbed it, preparing himself for what he was going to see.

As he pulled the sheet back and exposed Sherlock's body, the one word that was playing over in John's mind was '_beautiful'._

Because that was a perfect word to describe the sight before him: Sherlock's thighs were a pale white; his legs long and well-shaped for a man's; his lower abdomen was strong and an elegant trail of fine, black hair led from his naval down to his member where it branched out into heavier curls.

Bedded in the hair was his engorged erection, and the very sight of it made John's stomach flutter and his own erection twitch with need.

The doctor had never seen his friend in such a state, he also never realised how much he needed to see him like this until now.

John swallowed, his mouth had gone dry and he forced his mind to catch up to the situation he was in.

Did he really want this to happen?

He could walk away right now and not have any guilt or any strings, he could just walk.

Because, after all, what if Sherlock woke up and decided he didn't like what was happening, he could most definitely do him for rape, but that wasn't even the most important thing on John's mind right now.

Of course he cared if he was sex offender, who wouldn't? But the main problem was if Sherlock would even _look_ at him again.

Could he even bare to speak to him again, live with him again? This was something that had our good doctor petrified.

Why did it frighten him so much you ask?

Because John had had a feeling for a while now, a constant pull in his muscles and a thought in his brain that he would frequently push back, over and over.

At first he wasn't sure what it was, he had a good idea, of course, but he wouldn't let it settle in his mind for long until it was gone again.

But now, exposed to such a personal and vulnerable condition of the detective, John was letting his mind dwell on it.

By vulnerable, he didn't just mean his current…state. The whole ordeal of John having to mother over an ill and fevered Sherlock Holmes had bought emotions out of him that he thought he had buried away.

So now he considered, holding his hands up in defeat, did he _love_ Sherlock Holmes?

His thought train was stilled almost immediately as one of Sherlock's thrusts caused his lower back to grind into John's now half hard erection.

The doctor had to supress a loud moan as his mind was pulled back, kicking and screaming, into the hazy mist of arousal once more.

Slowly, overly cautious of how to go about it, John brushed his fingertips over the head of Sherlock's cock.

The reaction was almost immediate, Sherlock's hips made yet another powerful thrust that ended in nothing but wicked, taunting friction for John. John's head fell back and his mouth snapped open, almost like he had no control over his reaction whatsoever.

Sherlock continued to grind, whining for that lost sensation he had felt only seconds ago and, meanwhile, doing nothing for John's self-control as his back created devilish friction against John's concealed cock.

The doctor composed himself the best he could to bring his head off the pillow; Sherlock's breathe consequently appearing back in his ear once more: ragged and panting, mingled with short, sharp moans of sensual pleasure.

John breathed deeply through his nose, controlling the overflow of intense, rapturous emotion that was surging through him like hot oil, washing over him in waves of carnal heat that prickled up his spine. Sliding his calloused hands over Sherlock's smooth skin once more, John found his erection and gripped it with confidence at the base.

Sherlock's whole body stiffened and seemed to arc upwards, his mouth opened in a wide 'o', his cupid bow lips creating an almost heart shape to his expression. Startling green-blue eyes fluttered open momentarily before slamming closed again; John paused to wonder if he was actually awake or if that was just a reflex on his body's part.

As it happened, Sherlock was still sound asleep, something that and John felt both relieved and guilty about.

Wasn't this counted as rape? It's not as if Sherlock verbally consented to any of this.

However he didn't seem to be thrashing in discomfort, so obviously he wanted some part of it, but wasn't that what all rapists said?

'_He was asking for it your honour, he was sporting an erection so obviously he had consented despite him being semi-conscious of the whole thing and unable to protest.' _

John could already see the court case; maybe the best step to take would be to wake Sherlock up. In fact that seemed like the best idea, however it wasn't the easiest.

What John really wanted to do was pump this gorgeous man to completion until he was screaming his name in that ridiculously luscious, baritone voice of his and then maybe go and wank somewhere private without much more bother.

However, this also happened to be the _wrong_ thing to do.

Suddenly, interrupting his train of thought, there were two warm hands reaching gently up to cup his face. Looking down, John was drowning instantly in tepid, desirable and yet slightly disconcerted eyes.

"John…" the detective's baritone voice cracked out "What are you doing in my bed?" he continued to croak, apparently unaware that he was naked, aroused and that John still had his _bloody_ hand curled around the base of his cock.

John's mouth went dry, how on earth was he going to get out of this?

It was one thing knowing that you were just about to toss off your other _male_ flatmate, despite the fact of you protesting multiple times that you _weren't gay_, but it was another thing to know that you were going to do it while the other couldn't protest.

"I, um…" John started, trying to stealthily move his hand from Sherlock's erection without him noticing, which was impossible of course.

As soon as his hand moved even so much as an inch Sherlock's brow furrowed intensely, his mouth hanging open.

John could see Sherlock deducing the situation, which meant that the fever had gone down but also meant that John was well and truly fucked over from this moment on.

And not in a way that he'd like to be.

"J-John, what are you…" Sherlock squirmed, his hands still gripping intently onto John's face, trying to angle his head so he could look down his body and see what was going on.

Sherlock gasped,

"What the hell do you think you're doin-AH!" John went to move his hand away guiltily, apparently doing nothing for Sherlock's still evident arousal. "Stop it John!" he snapped, his fingernails now digging into the sides of John's head as his gaze glowered at his once more.

The good doctor had no idea what he was going to do, he was panicking so much that he'd now developed tunnel vision and was seeing Sherlock's angry face through a montage of his own heart beat battering against his sternum, and his heavy breaths that were wheezing out of his closed up lungs.

He had been caught, caught red handed and now Sherlock was angry.

And he had every right to be damn angry!

John was an idiot, he was a filthy and perverse abomination to the male human race and now he had to face the consequences.

The doctor continued to gawp down at Sherlock, frozen completely with a heavy, twisting feeling wringing his intestines until he wanted to cry out in pain.

"John…" Sherlock's voice growled, gravelly and deep, like a warning sign to a mentally weak murderer.

John swallowed and blinked but it still wasn't helping his frame of mind or condition even.

"Get off me before I call the police."

.

.

.

Thank you so much for reading!

If you enjoyed please leave a comment, it would make my day!

Also follow me on tumblr if you're interested.

.com.


	4. The Case of the Army Doctor

*crawls onto stage and feebly reaching for the microphone, bringing it down to height*  
It's...done...chapter four is...done...finally...here, take it *slides chapter across stage floor towards the crowd*  
Enjoy guys...author...out *passes out on stage*

.

.

.

_SHIT. Shit, shit, SHIT!_

Those words spiralled around in John's clouded mind, each syllable slicing into him and replacing his common sense with all out terror.

John wanted to speak, wanted to explain, wanted to make everything better again, make things calm but he couldn't _fucking _speak! He wanted to move, he wanted to do as he was told, his hand was burning where is connected with Sherlock's body, it stung in guilt but he couldn't _fucking _move! Just _fucking move!_

His thoughts broke and shattered and collided with each other and all he could see were Sherlock's verdigris eyes burning into his, feel his nails cutting into the skin as he gripped his face tightly, watch his lips curl up in a snarl that he couldn't hear for his heartbeat.

"I'm so sorry." He croaked out, his voice small and broken, he couldn't move, he could barely blink, "I'm so, so sor-"

"NO JOHN!" Sherlock barked, making John jump and a cold sweat gather at his forehead. Sherlock bought his face very close to the army doctor's, their noses almost touching with intimidating intimacy, his nails digging further into his face, " .me." he spat, whispering threateningly through gritted teeth.

The good doctor tried to swallow, his throat scratched together like two pieces of sandpaper. It hurt to breath, it hurt to blink, his whole body was overflowing with emotions he didn't understand and fear twisted and stabbed in his belly but yet ' !

All he was left to do was stare with blank, terrified eyes down at his flat share as he practically tore him to pieces, he couldn't even react, his whole mind had shut down. John recognised it now, he recognised this feeling, a feeling he had witnessed others experience and had experienced himself from the war; he was going into shock.

Sherlock ground his teeth and then down right exploded in the man's face.

"OH FOR GOD'S SAKE JOHN!" he roared, shaking the man's head in his hands, spittle specked over the doctor's face. "NOW…PLEASE JOHN!" and then John saw it, for a glimpse Sherlock had let his guard down and John had seen something that made him want to cry.

For that glimpse, that second of outrage, Sherlock looked absolutely terrified and the thing that hurt the most, was that he was terrified of John. Sherlock now viewed John as some sort of monstrous rapist and it was no one else but John's fault.

Watson sucked in a deep, shaky breath, trying desperately to calm his nerves and make his body respond to what he hoped would be the right decision. He slowly moved his hand from Sherlock's –now limp—penis, bringing the offending piece of anatomy up and as far away from Sherlock as possible.

Sherlock slowly released John's face and sat up, not turning to face him at all.

"Now get out." His voice was hollow and empty, wavering on something John had never heard in Sherlock's tone before but he recognised it to be severe anger.

John was silent, his breathing still hadn't died down and his heart was nothing but a dull throbbing in his neck now, his back and forehead drenched with sweat that was quickly chilling on his skin. He went to move, he didn't want to, he wanted to stay here and talk things out, explain but right now he had that familiar sinking feeling and light headedness that suggested he should do as he was told.

The bed creaked as he stood; Sherlock still hadn't turned to face him. Pin pricks of self-hate prickled their way across the bridge of his nose, anger clenched his fists, guilt engulfed his lungs, suffocating his face with unbearable, unspoken apologies and pain crashed into his stomach. As he walked, he was surprised to see it was on steady legs.

Where would this go from now? He knew it, he knew he should have just walked out while he still had the chance to do so, but no, now he's gone and fucked everything up.

John Watson stepped over the threshold of Sherlock's room, heat on his back and sweat on his face. This was it, this felt like the walk of shame that he had been regretting ever since it ever sprung into his mind. Was he a fool? A fool for not thinking? A fool for feeling for the incredible Sherlock Holmes?

The answer was yes.

He stepped into the living room, felt the carpet between his toes and thought that just a few hours ago, he was stood outside of here, Sherlock yakking about some bloody case that he had solved and now…well, now…

John took a shaky breath in, a small whine escaped his throat and he immediately cursed it. Clenching his hand nervously, he stood outside the door, back facing the bedroom for some time. He wanted to go in, he wanted to sit Sherlock down and explain everything but really, what was there to explain?

_Oh, you had a wet dream, so I thought I might help you out, it's what friends do of course, and then you woke up…and…and, you woke and you screamed at me…I wonder-_fucking_-why!?_

John sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands and walking further into the living room, he almost felt casual, as if the whole thing had never happened. In fact if it wasn't for the immeasurable sick feeling he had rising in his stomach, no one could have any knowledge of what happened. That is if Sherlock didn't choose to call the police anyway…

It seemed as if his mind had gone flaccid, limp of any thought other than what he had just done, and really? There was no excuse for it, no excuse at all. It was just an accident, an accident of emotion felt at the wrong time in the wrong place and it was all John's fault.

He was cold, he curled up in the settee, foetal position. He shivered continuously and violently resisted the urge to sob. He had broken it, he had broken their friendship. He felt like a six year old boy again when he broke his mum's favourite necklace. _Only_, he thought absentmindedly, _this is a bit more serious than breaking a bloody necklace!_

What would he do now? How could he ever face Sherlock again? How could he look into those eyes and not see hurt? How could he watch that face and not see a grimace, disgust twitching at his lips? He was a criminal, he was a monster and there was no excuse for what he did.

No excuse, no excuse, he'll call the police, no excuse.

Intense fear comes in waves, the human body can't take it all at once without driving the vessel half mad and so between the gut wrenching waves of fear come numbingly, sickeningly calm periods in which the body feels detached from emotion. It was in these pauses that John Watson could think clearly.

His hair was cold and wet against his forehead and his back and clothes were deluged in sweat as he wrapped his arms around himself and pressed his head into the arm of that chair. Come now, he told himself, you're being absurd.

_Absurd_…That sounded like something Sherlock would say to him. Suddenly the word absurd became painful to even think about. He shifted his weight further into the settee and was faintly aware of shivers rising up his spine again.

The next wave of fear he had was a bad one, he was sick in the toilet and couldn't seem to keep still, constantly getting up to urinate every five minutes, his hands turned cold due to bad circulation of blood—all of which was being pumped rapidly around his chest and doing nothing to keep him warm. He was strung out on adrenaline but had no way of using it up. He was physically aching all over his body as if he had just had a seizure.

He cried. He felt hot roll down his cheeks and brought his fists into his eyes as if in shame of being so sentimentally attached, but what else was he supposed to do?

No excuse, no excuse—he was a monster.

In the calm that came after the fear, John got up and walked around the flat, he paced up and down the living room taking deep breaths into his lungs and trying to think about what he could do, what he should do in this situation. He had to apologize.

But, oh god, _apologize_?! After something so horribly shameful, saying '_oh, hi, I'm really sorry about raping you_' is _NOT_ going to do the trick; if anything it will look pathetic. Watson shook his head clear of thought, he had to do something, he couldn't just leave it like this; he had to try.

Suddenly the bedroom door crashed open with a resounding bang against the wall and Sherlock strolled out—dressed impeccably—with a face like thunder and his jaw set so tight that John partly wondered if it was hurting him. He gave one, single icy glare at John before blanking him completely as he stalked into the kitchen.

John had frozen where he stood; his entire body was trembling from head to foot as his mind rapidly raced for the best choice of action. He felt his face burn in shame and he realised how he looked right now must have been nothing but pitiful to the great detective; his clothes sodden with odourless sweat; his eyes red and swollen from tears that he hadn't meant to cry; his general posture stooped in shame.

He was a clot, he was an idiot and a rapist and he deserved no more than a glare in his direction but it's all that he could do to stare hopelessly at the detective as he moved around the kitchen. No, this was ridiculous, he had to do something and he had to do it _now_!

Straightening his posture, John remembered all those times in the army when he had been scared witless and allowed himself to learn from them. He flexed his hands and turned confidently to the younger Holmes who was now seated at the table with his microscope.

The sleuth still looked a bit flushed in the face and John noticed his breathing was off—his fever wasn't down. And he was pushing himself with an experiment?! All the more reason for John to pipe up about this whole, stupid situation; and that's just what he was about to do.

Storming up to the kitchen table, John leant on it with his open palms across from Sherlock and opened his mouth only to allow his nerves to fail him at the last second, he mentally cursed himself and took a deep breathe, noticing how Sherlock hadn't even moved his eyes.

"L-look, Sherlock…" he started in a small but firm voice, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock set in stone still, not moving "…Right, um, well…" John coughed slightly, clearing his throat before taking another deep breath "What I did before was…inexcusable and…and…awful and I just wanted to say that I'm sorr—" but he was abruptly cut off by Sherlock pushing away his microscope and walking away from the table and into the living room. John stared in horror at the sleuth's retreating back and felt a cold knot fix in his stomach; he couldn't even stand to be near him.

"Hey!" he shouted and instantly regretted it when Sherlock whirled so fast on him that it would put even the best freight trains to shame. He walked towards him now with slow, deliberate steps.

"What?" He spoke calmly with a biting tone that cut into John and made him practically speechless as if his tongue had been claimed by ice. "What?" he repeated, rising both brows "Because it sounded to me like you were about to _apologize_ for what you did…" His lips curled around the words now, snarling them. As he got closer, John felt compelled to take a step backwards.

"I—" John's voice was weak in the back of his throat held under that furious glare.

"Oh, but I'll tell you one thing…" His baritone continued, speeding up in pace as his anger claimed him. John's back collided with something cold and stayed there, it took him a while to realise he had hit the fridge. Sherlock stopped accordingly, mere centimetres from his face. "You managed to surprise me, in fact I've never been more surprised in my life, why do you think that is?" John knew the answer but he didn't say it, he couldn't bear to say it. The words were catching in his throat even as he thought about it.

"No? Okay, I'll tell you…" Sherlock's cold blue eyes studied his face briefly. John had never seen Sherlock like this before, he had seen him behave like this to others but he had never experienced it first-hand…it was terrifying. "Because I _trusted_ you." he hissed and John's stomach turned cold, he looked to the floor as anguish swept over him and gritted his teeth.

"Ye-yes I know…" He whispered bluntly, his eyes were beginning to sting and he prayed to god not to make him cry, not like this, he was stronger than this. At least he wanted to be but at the moment it wasn't proving to be so eventful.

The doctor felt Sherlock veer away more than saw it and he gained confidence in steeling his glance and looking the detective in his cobalt eyes, although when he saw the expression on the man's face he was surprised he didn't drop his glance.

It was hate, pure hate.

John had worked with—been _friends _with—Sherlock long enough now to realise just how quickly he can change his opinion on someone but he never once thought that he would be the subject of such an inhospitable quality. He was stuck between awe and melancholy at how quickly it took Sherlock Holmes to abandon all sentiment for his once good friend.

The taller man had begun to walk away once more and it was all John could do to stop him.

"Wait…" he sounded in a small voice but Sherlock continued his strides, not even thinking to take notice of the rapist against the fridge. John took a few steps forward and managed to brush his fingertips over Sherlock's suit jacket, clinging to the material the way a dying man would.

Sherlock immediately tried to shake him off, not being good with touch to start with but being even worse with it due to his anger, before he gyrated on John once again; his eyes were wild.

"What do you want, get off me?!" he bellowed but John ignored his protests and instead focused on Sherlock's more than naturally flushed face.

"You've still got a fever, Sherlock; it's dangerous for you to be—"

"What, so you can have your way with me again, I think not!" the words that cut from his mouth plunged into John with such pain that he felt a wave of shock travel through his skull, however this only made him more determined. If there's one thing he ever learnt in the army, it was to never give into a struggling patient.

"No, Sherlock!" the shout scratched up his throat and for a moment surprise flickered into Sherlock's eyes, now it was his turn to say something "No, you haven't listened to me ever since I tried to speak to you, but now…!" he paused for a minute, his expression turning sorrowful at what he was about to say.

"If you're not going to let me be your friend, at least let me be your doctor!" There was a long pause in which John hung his head and shut his eyes against what Sherlock would throw at him next, upon realising he hadn't said anything, he cast his gaze up once more and something in Sherlock's eyes had changed. Something had flickered and it almost looked like a hint of sadness before his gaze steeled over once more and he narrowed his eyes.

"Fine." He spat and, to be honest, that hurt a lot more than any other insult that had been thrown at him.

John gave Sherlock a check-up, he took his temperature and his pulse to make sure everything was running smoothly. Sherlock stayed silent and obedient throughout the whole thing and if John closed his eyes it was almost back to normal, that is to say that when he opened them again and saw Sherlock's scowling face, he knew that it wasn't.

"How am I doing, _doctor_?" the amount of venom in that sentence alone was enough to send any other person to the brinks of self-control, only this was John and John knew that he deserved all the venom in the world for what he had done.

Taking in a breath, the doctor held Sherlock with an even glance despite his conflicting emotions that made him want to look to the floor.

"You're…you've still got a temperature and your heart beat was off average, so I would suggest you…um…sleep again" after the last 'event' while he was asleep, he doubted Sherlock would even trust him in the same room with him anymore.

Silence stretched between them and John thought this was the best time to speak his mind finally, he took in a lungful of air and tried to compose his nerves, being sure that they wouldn't let him down this time.

"Right, I'm going to say this even though you won't like it, but I really am sorry for what I did…" He could see Sherlock's expression souring and so he rattled on quickly so as not to be interrupted "And I know, I _know_, what I did was horrible and disgusting and there really is no excuse for it but I was…uhm, confused I guess and aroused and, well, I didn't think okay?" His eyes were honest and they bore into Sherlock's cold ones, hoping to get through to him in a level that he would understand "And I just wanted to say that any—"

"Get out John."

"…I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, I said get out, I don't want to hear your excuses, leave now."

John's heart sank, his legs trembled and he felt hollow as his vision dulled with the emotional baggage of being rejected. This was it then? This was how it would go on? He would just have to creep around the flat and avoid Sherlock as much as possible—that's if he didn't throw him out.

Heavy realisation fell on him like broken glass and for once in his life; John Watson looked into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes and didn't see a friend in him.

Dropping his eyes from the detective's penetrating glare, he set his jaw and walked out of his flat share's room and into the living room. Before he realised what had happened, our good doctor found himself on the living room floor, his breathing had picked up but he wasn't crying.

Fists tightening in the carpet, John's body decided that his legs would no longer be stable to stand on anymore and so he found himself staring harshly at the familiar floor of 221b.

There was no one he could turn to, what he had done was unspeakable to anyone else and the only person he had ever found a close friend in was now a nobody to him, just another acquaintance. He had isolated himself from the rest of the world due to the heinous crime he had committed and, in John's mind, he deserved no more.

He was trying to help, he had tried over and over to say sorry, and he really didn't know what else he could do!? There was nothing he _could_ do now, the damage had been done and that was it. It pained Watson to think that only a few hours ago he was listening to one of Sherlock's deductions, picking Sherlock's coat off the floor, bathing the stupid bastard like a new born child and he _trusted_ him.

The silly fool had put his trust in one person in the whole wide world and he had abused it, he had _fucking_ abused it. God only knows how long it would take for that level of intimacy to build up again. John screwed his sore and swollen eyes shut and harshly rested his head on the floor, clutching his fists so tightly together that he could feel blood under his fingernails.

This was nonsensical, absolutely outrageous and John was stuck in the middle of this hideous nightmare. He had done it all, he had tried every possible, humane option that was possible in this situation and John had to agree that that wasn't many.

His jaw was beginning to hurt and the muscles were flickering where he was tensed for too long but he couldn't relax, he physically couldn't. A drop of liquid fell onto his arm and he couldn't decide whether he was sweating or crying or fucking _drooling_, he felt weak, he felt damaged and numb but most of all he felt betrayed and he had no idea why.

Come on John, pull yourself together now, think, you can't let yourself burn out like this.

Attempting to stand, the ex-army man was barely surprised when he found that he couldn't, his mind was buzzing constantly and his thoughts jumbled but he only understood that he had to think of something and he had to do it soon. He couldn't continue like this, it wasn't fair.

He found himself wishing that he could close off all his emotions like Sherlock and then he banished all thoughts of Sherlock from his mind violently, he would not think of that man now, not now—possibly not ever again.

He thought and thought and oh god did he rack his brain for some way out of this mess, he thought so hard, his blood pressure sky rocketing with every angry chide he punished himself with, that he was sure he would have a nosebleed.

Loud, his mind scattered ideas around his mind so rapidly that John could feel his temples pulse with a headache he couldn't feel. Different ideas would push to the front of his brain but nothing would fit, some of them were so bizarre that was partially terrified that his mind had completely snapped.

Forcing breath into his lungs, John Watson sat up and steeled his expression. He tried to unlock his jaw and contrived himself to relax, using methods he had tutored to amputees if they ever experienced phantom pain, focusing on every wound up muscle he felt them slowly relax with his breathing. After all, this was no way for an ex-army man to behave, now really.

Another deep breath through his nose but still that painful feeling remained under his solar plexus and it only spread when his mind unavoidably thought back to the look on Sherlock's face, there was no friendship there, not even an atom of the detective he used to know anymore.

John winced, his neck seizing as the muscles tightened from his jaw but he convinced himself not to think of that right now. Sat here in the middle of the living room floor, his eyes swollen, is clothes rumpled and dark rings under his eyes where stress had taken it's toll, he wondered where his life would take him now.

His mind made one last, feeble stutter of an idea and it happened to be one that John had been trying to avoid from the beginning, but it seemed that it was inevitable now. More than inevitable, it was the only way that he would sort out this mess.

A reluctant sob rose in the back of his throat as he arranged the thought more clearly in his head, how, when. He was actually doing this, a thing he had thought he would never, _never_ have to resort to in his life with Sherlock Holmes. He thought back to the time when he was sat on that bench with Mike Stamford, if he had knew that this would happen, would he still be here? The answer to that question was probably a yes.

He would pack his things and leave 221b Baker street for good tomorrow morning, never to return again.

.

.

.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to write a chapter that was worse that the last one *hits head against wall for the 58th time* what is my life?  
Next chapter will be up as soon as possible, please review because I have a wife and family and they need to eat (wut?)  
.com


End file.
